


Tales From the Past

by writtenthroughtime



Series: WTT's Posts for ImagineClaireandJamie [31]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: AU, Endless Time Loop, F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenthroughtime/pseuds/writtenthroughtime
Summary: Claire and Lamb discovering different legends on their travels. Becoming obsessed with a story of a North Carolina witch and her husband, Claire sets out to discover all she can about these people not knowing she's learning about her own future.





	1. A Witch's Tool

“...and that’s how this particular set of mountains got their names, at least if you believe the story of an old woman passed down from the generations.” The old woman smiled, the creases of her skin wrinkling in happiness. 

“Thank you! You’ve been such a help to us. Do you know of anywhere where the artifacts you mention might be? I’d love to be able to provide a sketch for my books,” Uncle Lamb asked, intriguing the old woman again. Their talk was animated and I wandered about the room, the odd carvings and paintings leading to knick-knacks and heirlooms. It’s a wonder that these things were made, let alone still existed in the twentieth century. 

A shine caught my eye as I paced by the small, but ornate hearth. Tucked behind a carving of the Virgin Mary was something metallic. Groping behind the statue, I could just feel the object with my fingertips. 

“Aha!” I gasped in triumph when the object was secured in my fist. “A knife?” 

The small knife had a shiny, well worn handle with the perfect finger holds, it felt warm and fit perfectly in my hand. I turned it over inspecting the craftsmanship. The silver was finely polished but there were nicks and scratches all along the edge proving that this had been used, and maybe not just for household needs. If there was a design on the handle it had long since been rubbed into smoothness. The only flaw was closer to the blade where a small chunk of wood was missing, exposing the metal beneath. 

“So ye found my ancestors wee knife, hmm?”

I jumped and let out a squeal the knife flying from my hand and landing tip first into the wood near my foot. 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to pry, I just--well it was that the blade—I—”

The old woman held up her hand shook her head. “Och, dinna fash yerself one bit. This blade is tough and old. I doubt you could do any harm to it. The way you were holding it showed more that you’d be the one to get hurt. Never point the blade at yourself. You nearly took out a toe when you dropped it.” 

To emphasize her point, the old woman stooped down and pulled the blade from the floor, giving her left big toe a thump with the flat part of the blade. 

“This knife has been in my family for generations. The story is said that it was owned by a witch and she used it to make her brews here in this very cabin. But that’s just to scare off the locals children. The truth of the blade is that it was owned by a healer who lived on this mountain, nearly two hundred years ago. She helped raise my great-great-great grandmother as well as her own family. My great-great grandfather always had it on the mantle. I never understood why as a child that my great grandparents and grandparents continued to do so. ‘It brings luck!’ Uncle Thomas would say, or ‘It’s magic and it’ll keep folk from messing with us!’ my Grandda Beardsley would murmur before doing the sign of the cross.” The woman twirled the knife between her fingers until the underneath was shown. Scratches that weren’t scratches at all shone in the firelight. 

“T C L J?” I murmured, “What does TCLJ mean?” 

The woman shrugged. “No one knows. I assume it’s the initials of the crafter, but I can’t be certain. Anyone who would know is already dead.” 

I reached out and gently stroked the initials. “Maybe it’s To someone Love someone else?” 

“Hmm… Perhaps. Here.” The woman handed me the knife. “You keep it. It may come in handy where you and your Uncle are headed.” 

“No! I couldn’t possibly! It’s a family heirloom. You should pass it on to your children, I don’t deserve it,” I protested, trying to hand back the knife. 

“I won’t hear of it. My children are grown and my grandchildren uninterested in a bit o’ family magic. You, though, would appreciate it and use it as it’s meant. It’s not meant to be tucked away, but used!” 

“Thank you. I’ll take care of it,” I promised, as I gingerly held the knife closer to me, holding the case in my other hand.

“Just remember things always have a way of making themselves back to their rightful owners. And I think you were meant to have this knife. Do you have any roots at all leading to North Carolina or the States?” 

I shook my head, still transfixed by the initials on the handle. “No ma’am. Not that I know of. Uncle Lamb might know.” 

“Claire?” Peeling my eyes away from the knife I looked at Uncle Lamb, who looked like a kid in a candy store. “Come. We need to get going if we want to make it up the mountain and back before dark.” 

Following obediently, I said one last thank you to the old woman and pocketed the knife.


	2. The Whisky Maker

“Did you enjoy talking with Mrs. McNeil? She has two centuries of stories and ties to these mountains and before that, she said her family is of Scottish origin! Can you imagine?” Lamb shook his head in delight. “Scotland isn’t so unlike these Carolinian mountains. I bet her ancestors felt very much at home here. And the stories she was able to tell! Did you hear her recount the story of when this entire ridge went to war for one woman? The legend is that the woman still lives in the cave we’re headed to! How fascinating it is! I do hope we are able to find something left of importance from the original settlers here. And I think—”

Uncle Lamb rambled on as we trudged the two miles up into the mountains to the cave he was set on finding. The entire journey, the knife seemed to burn in my pocket. I couldn’t stop from touching the handle or patting my side to feel it there, safe and sound.

“Here we are! Look at this Claire! It seems this could have once been a storage area.” Lamb flitted from side to side, buzzing with the excitement of a child at play.

“Yes! Yes! Oh my dear Claire! I found something, truly! Yes!”

Rolling my eyes with a smile, I followed back to where he was in the cave. “What is it, Uncle?”

“A cask of, what I believe to be, whiskey! This looks like it has survived the centuries. There’s no tell tale smell of a distillery for miles. We’ve found part of Mrs. McNeil’s legend! Seems the witch did live here or somewhere abouts. Perhaps her husband was a whiskey maker.”

Rolling the barrel carefully out into the light, Uncle Lamb examined everything from the lack of rotting on the barrel rungs to the style in which it was sealed and crafted.

“I thought the old woman said that she wasn’t a witch, but a healer who lived here?”

“Is that what she told you?” Lamb questioned, not looking up from his journal. “My dear, a female healer in those days was almost always considered a witch! The fact there isn’t a prominent story of a witch burning on this mountain is incredibly rare.”

“I just don’t think the woman was a witch.” My thumb stroked the handle of the knife as I said this.

Uncle Lamb twisted the barrel for a different angle in his sketches and unearthed a carving.

“Uncle!” I gasped, pulling the knife from my pocket and holding it up to the side of the barrel. “Look! Look!” I pointed frantically between the knife’s carved initials and the letters carved on the side of the whiskey cask.

_Mde by: Jms. AMM Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, Smer Btch 1778_

His eyes went wide, going back and forth from the knife in my hand to the rung with the carved signature. The closer we began to examine the cask the more indentations were found all over the bottom section of the barrel, each scratched out when the barrel was obviously reused.

_Jms. Fraser_ had the most, followed by a _CE Fraser, F.Fraser, M. Fraser, R.Mac, B.Mac, and a GermJem FraMac_ dating back as far as the 1760s. I wanted to know who these people were. What were their actual names instead of just the partial names and initials.

“Uncle, I bet this Jms. Fraser is the one who made this knife for the CE Fraser! Are there records we can find to find out who these people are and where they came from?” I asked, more enthusiastically than expected.

Laughing, Uncle Lamb put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you so excited before my dear! Yes, yes I’m sure we can find some records and if these are the original settlers we may even find something leading us back to Scotland!”

“Uncle,” I laughed. “You’re probably one of the only Englishmen who finds it exciting and wants to go to Scotland!”

The local library was open the following day and I was bouncing with excitement. I couldn’t wait to search and look for the Fraser’s who created the knife—which was a heavy weight in my pocket—and what happened to them.

“Come on, Uncle!” I cried as Lamb slowly meandered around the coffee shop around the corner from the library.

“Patience, my dear!” he chuckled, before finally settling on a chair with his newspaper. “It’ll be good for you to wait and enjoy the satisfaction of finding your answers.”

I groaned, flopping down into the chair beside him. “But I want to go now! I need to know what happened to them. I just… I have to know!”

Uncle Lamb quirked an eyebrow at me and grinned.

“Let’s go then,” he said, tucking the paper under his arm and placing his pipe back into his satchel.

The resources were minimal and dusty.

My heart sank as I saw the menial books containing records.

“Fraser, you said?” the clerk asked, lazily.

“Yes!” I bounced, hoping she’d pull a volume or two out for us to see.

“This way then.” She pointed towards a door I hadn’t noticed before. “The Fraser’s were one of the founding families of this area. We don’t have quite the extensive research that the state would have or even city hall, but we do have ledgers and sanctions tucked away. Be sure to put anything you touch back the way you found it.” She eyed us from behind her coke-bottle glasses. “We take pride in our collections and do not wish to lose anything.”

“You’ll have no problem from us, my dear,” Lamb reassured her, ushering me inside.

I spun in a circle taking it all in. It was a small room, no bigger than the bathroom at the hotel, but from ceiling to floor were bookshelves covered in old leather bound books. The one spot that wasn’t covered was a small window on the northern wall, just enough light to illuminate the room without direct exposure to the precious books inside.

“Well love, have at it! Let’s find your Fraser’s!”

The books all had some descendant or mention of a Fraser family, but was it **_my_** Fraser family? I didn’t know. An hour into our search, I finally found a James Fraser.

“Uncle!” I called. “Look here! James MacKenzie Fraser,” I read aloud, “Do you think this is him? The man who made the knife and the whisky cask?”

“I do believe it may very well be. Let’s see what else we can find on him, yes?” Uncle Lamb’s eyes twinkled in excitement as he pulled another musty ledger forward intent on the search.

This is one thing about Uncle Lamb and his hair-brained adventures that I love; when he’s found something interesting, he never gives up on discovering the person or item’s full history. The library in rural North Carolina, did not do much to help us find more of Mr. Fraser’s past. It lead us on a chase through the entire state and up the eastern seaboard of the United States. James Fraser was mentioned countless times as a man working for the state and as a wanted man. Army enlistments, battles fought at, and even public hearings where he made himself enemies, but not one ledger or book recounted where his tale originated, or that of his wife. At least that was until we found an old recounting from Lord Tyron.

_‘...On the 12th Day of August, I granted a man pardon and land in the wilds of the western most part of the colony. Mr. James MacKenzie Fraser and wife Claire of Broch Morda, Scotland, will be in the King’s Service and hereby exempt of taxes laid on the land while in the service.’_

“Broch Morda! Uncle where is this place?”

“The Highlands.”


	3. The Dun Bonnet

Scotland was unlike anything I had ever seen before. The land was an unbelievable shade of green and more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. The image I had of my witch and whiskey maker family fit perfectly within this landscape. The rolling hills leading to towering mountains, and the glistening lakes reflecting the scenery around them gave the air of magic and endless possibilities. The deeper into the Highlands we traveled, the easier it was to see how the Scots, and my Scots in particular, transitioned and settled in the mountains of North Carolina. There was a familiarity between the two, but whereas Scotland felt old and full of legends, the North Carolinian mountains had an air of youthful mystery in comparison.

“Are we there yet, Uncle?” I asked as yet another town flashed beyond the car windows.

“Not yet my dear. We’ll be there in no time at all, just enjoy the scenery. Maybe you could come up with your own legend by the time we get to our destination!” He cheered then went back to humming a nameless tune.

I sighed and looked longingly out the window. I just wanted to be there, I wanted to see their home and find out more. “Are we going to Broch Morda and Lallybroch?” I asked not five seconds later.

“No, Claire.” Uncle Lamb said with authority. “We’re headed to a town called Inverness. My correspondent who can trace their lineage back to Lallybroch itself lives there. She’s more than willing to tell her family stories and that of her husband’s as well.”

“Fine.” I grumbled, “I still wish we were going straight to Lallybroch. Something is pulling me in that direction, we need to go there.”

“Patience my dear, we will get there, just after we’ve heard what these Murray’s have to say.” Lamb winked.

Inverness was beautiful, tucked away at the top of Loch Ness I could see the appeal and history all around, but I was restless.

“How long do we have to be here?”

“Long enough,” He laughed guiding me towards the door. “I thought you wanted to hear the legends?”

I groaned, “I do but I want to go see Lallybroch more!”

“Let’s see what they have to say first. We’ll need their story to help further our investigation, despite your curious insistence!” Uncle Lamb cut me off before I could speak further.

“Fine,” I murmured into my arm that rested on the door. My excitement crushed for a moment.

The countryside blurred by until the faintest idea of a town sprung up in spires and stone.

“Inverness?” I asked looking to at Uncle Lamb. He grinned and nodded, weaving our way through the streets to the tea room where the mysterious Murray’s awaited our arrival.

“Here we are, m’dear!” Lamb exclaimed throwing the car door open. “Would you get my satchel from the boot? We may need to take photographs and extra pens and paper! You never know what all they’ll have or have to say!”

His excitement was contagious and I felt my own lift to a nervous bubble. I still longed to see the fabled home, but deep down I knew I needed to hear what the Murray’s had to say.

“Are you Quentin Lambert?” A tall and lanky man with jet black hair and gray eyes asked as he approached our car.

“That I am! You must be Alexander Murray,” Lamb greeted, clasping the man’s hand.

Mr. Murray chuckled and nodded. “Aye, and this is my sister Jennifer.” He gestured to short girl with the same black hair and gray eyes.

“We’ve already got a kettle on, please join us inside.” Her smile was kind, but wary.

“Claire! Don’t forget the books!” Uncle Lamb called from over his shoulder absentmindedly as he entered the quaint stone building.

I took a moment to breathe in my surroundings. The bustle of people and their cars contrasting against the ancient stone buildings. If I closed my eyes and blocked out the modern sounds I could believe I was there when it all began. I could feel the clean Scottish air as it wrapped itself around me and those on the streets, smell the the roasting meats from taverns and hearth fires as well as fresh bannocks and bread, and I could imagine the sounds of wagon wheels and horse’s hooves on cobble and splattering mud. My imagination took me to a world where I could imagine my whisky making Scot walking down the street, and with a swish of a kilt he was gone.

“Miss Beauchamp?” I jumped, startled, my eyes flying open as the pack fell to the street. “Och, sorry. I dinna mean to give ye such a fright. Yer uncle was asking for ye. I came to fetch ye inside.”

My cheeks reddened from getting caught in my fantasy. The real world felt foreign and distant compared to where my mind had just held me. I slowly retrieved Uncle Lamb’s bag and followed Jennifer Murray inside.

“Claire! Claire! There you are, what kept you? No matter, you really must hear what young Mr. Murray has told me about his family! There was a tale that originated from a great uncle of sorts, and that very uncle could be the James Fraser we are striving to find! But I’m very much more fascinated in this enthralling tale of a cave, espionage and freedom! Please, come sit. Sit and listen!” Lamb managed to get all of this out in a single breath, his face red, but eyes alight with excitement. I noticed his hands were already ink-stained and smudged, his left worst of all. 

“Breathe Uncle.” I said, laying a hand to his shoulder. “I’m sure Mr. Murray doesn’t wish to recount the tale again.”

“I dinna mind at all! Would ye like some tea before I start?” Alexander Murray gestured to the barely touched tray of tea and shortbread.

“Yes, thankyou.” I replied, pouring my own cup and grabbing a biscuit.

“As I was telling your very enthusiastic Uncle, my family has many tales and legends as does most here in the highlands. But one, we can go so far to say, is one of the more famous ones.” he said lowering his voice with a wink. “This one legend was said to be the Laird of Broch Tuarach during the uprising of Prince Tearlach in 1745. It’s said that the Laird was spared at the battle of Culloden or most likely escaped the clutches of the British and fled back to his homeland. His hair was a fiery red, easily spotted and gave him little chances to hide. My–” he paused and then gestured to his sister, “–our great-great-great grandmother was this Laird’s sister. She hid him in a priest hole that her recently dead sister-in-law had told her to build. You see the Laird’s wife was a Sassenach and a faerie.

“The folk in the highlands were wary of her and her healing abilities, even though the laird loved her more than life. She was among those caught in the crossfire of Culloden. The Laird being so distraught had nearly given up the will to live and when he was well enough to stand, decided to hide in the hillside to better protect his family.”

“Och! You’re tellin it wrong Sawny!” Jennifer interrupted.

“Och aye? Am I? Weel why dinna you tell it then and let me save my voice!” he said and smugly crossed his arms and legs into a relaxed position.

“I will then!” She settled herself deep into her chair.

“As my brother said, our great-great-great grandmother was the sister to the Laird who became legend, and it is from her that we get our story. Before the days of Culloden and the blackened soul of Prince Tearlach set this bonnie nation into strife, the Murray’s and Fraser’s lived peacefully on the estate. The young Laird had taken a faerie to wife, but all that knew her well enough said she was kinder than of any fae, and that she loved the Laird and his family to the ends of time. It was when she caught a vision of great strife and suffering for her beloved’s people, she told her good sister to plant crops that would yield a great amount, and prepare hidden storages including a priest’s hole under the kitchen cellar. The fae and her husband rushed out to protect the people and try to stop the horror she had seen from coming to fruition.

“They had earned the trust of Prince Tearlach, and made their way into his inner council. Night after night, day after day, the Laird tried to convince the Prince of his doomed cause, but to no avail. The horror still approached and overcame the people of this good nation. Killing thousands, destroying homes and the highland culture at it’s roots. The faerie wife, so distraught at the destruction of her adopted home, begged for her people to save the Scots, to turn back time and not let it happen, but they didna answer. Instead, it’s said she curled up on a faerie hill just outside Inverness and died of a broken heart. Unable to save her beloved nor her new people, and the old ones wouldnae have her back.

“However, the Laird did survive! He made his way home to Broch Tuarach where his sister tended to his physical wounds, but nothing could take away the pain he felt at the death of his wife. He hid for months in the priest’s hole, listening to raid after raid from the British soldiers and he could have it no more. He was too much of a danger to his family, and he couldna bear to lose another part of his heart. One night, he hid himself deep into the caves of the hills that surrounded his property with naught but a dun bonnet to his name. Just far enough that he would pose no danger, but close enough that if he was needed, he could be called upon. For seven years he hid by himself in the caves, coming out at night, clad in brown from head to toe, hiding the flames of his hair under bonnet and cloak of night to deliver fresh meat of his kills to his people and family.

“The Laird’s most faithful servant would risk his life week after week to bring the Laird fresh ale, clothes, and news of the town and of his family when the laird could not make his way down the mountain. On a day, not unlike today, where the sun shone high and the temperature mild, the servant raced up the hill bringing his lairdship fresh supplies, only to be stopped by a wicked cluster of British soldiers. They accused the lad of stealing and chopped his hand off for his crimes, then stole the Laird’s supplies for their own gain. Outraged the Laird tended the lad as best he could in the cave before taking him to the estate for proper healing. It was then the Laird decided that his time in the caves were at an end. He had to stand, he needed to fight the cruelty and oppression being imposed on his people.

“Seven years since the uprising, and there was still a traitor’s reward for the Laird. The laird asked his brother-in-law to turn himself in, grab the Stirling reward and feed the family and people he could no longer protect.”

Jennifer stood up and went to the window. I blinked trying to come back to the world around me. The tale she had spun so vivid in my mind, like that was the true reality and not this tea parlor.

“What happened to him? The Laird?” I asked, desperate to hear more.

She turned the light a halo around her silhouette, “The Dun Bonnet Laird went to prison to save his family. If you go back to our family’s ancestral home and speak to the locals they may tell you of him in a different way, the story altering from family to family. But one thing is for sure, they say on the old fire feasts, ye can see the Dun Bonnet standing at the mouth of his cave, keeping his vigil for all who are under his protection.”


	4. Home

Three long years of renovations done on the estate, followed by six long years off to war, and finally, it was finally home: Lallybroch. The fabled home of my dunbonnet and his faerie witch was now my own. I spun in a circle, giddy with excitement and bubbling nerves. I had a home, a place to relax, to live, to grow, and never worry if there will be somewhere for me at the end of the day.

The grounds were vast and gorgeous fields of flowing grass, wildflowers, and dense Scottish forest. The air clear from the smog of the city and decay of war. Each day was a new day to discover something from the past. I started familiarizing myself with my new home with daily walks into the woods. My journal close by to document any and every plant I came across.

Exploring the land gave me a sense of being home, and somehow closer to the Dun Bonnet tale that had fascinated me since I was teenager. It was his home and land, and with it came the most surreal experiences, especially the days I spent exploring his cave. The small cave about a fifteen minute hike from the house had given me chills. There was a small carving of initials in the stone deep into the cave, a jagged J, C & B. The letters tried to mimic the ornate style that was written in the mid-to-late 18th century. I couldn’t help but finger the small letters, wondering what or who the letters represented.

_“Claire,”_

My head whipped toward the entrance of the cave. The wind must have been playing tricks on my mind.

_“Mo_ nighean donn _,”_

I heard the wind whisper words again just as my finger caressed the “J” in the sequence of letters. My skin had pebbled with gooseflesh, as though something was directly behind me. Each time I entered the cave this sensation occurred.

As the fall and winter months turned into the first brisk breezes of spring, the locals began creeping out of the woodwork to welcome me to the area as the seasons passed. Most were apprehensive and standoffish. I caught some of their hushed words on the rare occasion I went to town.

_“What’s a young Sassenach lass doing living in the old Fraser-Murray estate?”_

_“Poor lass lost her only family in the war, wonder why she decided to move to the Highlands?”_

_“Scandalous! A woman of her age alone in a place like that! Why if her family knew they’d be rolling over in their graves.”_

Sometimes, though, the words were of kindness and pity not malice and apprehension. I learned to take the good with the bad, ignoring the jibes at my upbringing and single status. I ignored them until one day the talk of a witch and folklores of old drifted from an open door. My interest piqued, I tentatively walked into the small shop. The shop was cloaked in a sickeningly sweet smell of floral perfume and baked goods. Postcards hung from a string in the window, while the interior was filled with the most delicate bits and baubles made from glass and ceramics.

“Och! Hello m’dear! And what brings ye to Madame Elsie’s today?”

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I heard something about a white lady?”

The old woman, presumably Elsie’s eyebrows shot into the curls of her hairline.

“Aye, and that’s no something to be spouting off about. Though since ye heard us speaking of it, it wouldnae hurt to ask why ye’re interested in the matter?”

“Oh! I’m a folklorist, or well, I used to be...before the war. My uncle and I traveled the world documenting the folklores of different cultures.” I felt my cheeks heat, “I really am sorry for intruding, it’s a second nature for me to always be listening for a story.”

The old woman smiled, “Never fear dear, please have a seat and we’ll tell you what we know of the White Lady.”

I pulled up a plum colored plush armchair and my notebook before sitting down between the two women.

“Do you mind if I write this down?”

“Of course not dear! Write whatever you wish. This story is common knowledge and I’m surprised this is the first you’ve heard of it on this day.”

“Elsie…” The second woman warned.

“Relax Miriam,” Elsie said with a wave of her hand. “You know that the Crooks, the Baird’s and the Murray’s all tell this tale today.”

Miriam scoffed and went back to her tea.

“So m’dear, the tale of the White Lady that’s going on aboot the town today is an interesting one. Today is the day that the White Lady is said to be seen on this day every year. It’s the day she meets her love for the first time.”

“Is the White Lady a ghost?”

“Och! Aye! She is indeed, from the ‘45 rebellion and all! Ye can hear her screams and cries for the love she lost and the life she knew from the faerie hill up yonder.”

“Faerie hill?”

“Child! Surely ye ken the Faerie hill, Craig na Dun?”

I shook my head slowly. “Could you tell me how to get there? I’d love to see it.”

The two women exchanged a glance then nodded as one. “Aye, go down the road aboot a mile or so and turn left. The Faerie Hill is five miles from the fork in the road. Ye’ll ken it from the stones that stand upon it. They seem to glow from the sun and their ancient dead power. If ye see the screaming White Lady, be wary child. She’ll no take kindly to intruders.”

\---

I clutched at my head, the splitting pain ebbing slowly from my temples. I could see again. The area looked the same, deep, green, and that of the Scottish wilderness I had grown accustomed to, yet there was something different about the landscape. A youthfulness mixed with the ancient that wasn’t there just seconds before.

My research for the source of the Dunbonnet’s wife had lead me to Craig na Dun, the tale Elsie and Miriam confirmed any suspicions I may have had. The locals all have stories of the brave rebel who had taken a faerie for a wife. Some called him crazy, others bewitched, but all agreed he was the same man; a Laird of Broch Tuarach from the eighteenth century. Uncle Lamb and I had found his story years ago, but I couldn’t let it go, and look where that’s gotten me. The same land, yet somehow different, a splitting headache, stones that seemed to be screaming, and God knows what other injuries to my body. The sound of shouting, guns, and the screech of metal on metal drifted to me from below. Soldiers.

There were soldiers fighting at the base of the hill clad in stereotypical red coats. I ran for it. I knew the direction I needed to travel to get back to Lallybroch, back to safety and the creature comforts of home. Hopefully, once there I’d wake up from this daze and find out I had ruined the filming of some period drama.

I tripped, tumbled down the hill and landed face first into the mud by a stream. Now my head really hurt. Before I could stand or even catch my bearings, a hand clapped itself over my mouth and pulled back, exposing my neck. Something cool touched the base of my throat.

_“Cò a_ tha thu _is dè a_ tha thu _a 'dèanamh_ an seo?” A gruff voice murmured in my ear. I hadn’t studied much but understood some of the words the man said.

I couldn’t speak and felt my breathing quicken, if he didn’t let go of my mouth I’d soon hyperventilate and pass out, becoming completely at his mercy. I shook my head hoping to convey I didn’t mean harm. He only tightened his grip and growled louder in my ear the same words.

Shouts came from behind us, I attempted to yell through my captor's hands, I didn’t succeed. A sharp pain hit the back of my head and everything went black.

I woke to the feeling of being on horseback, the sting of cold Scottish mist, and my head feeling as though it was about to explode from the pain and pressure. I didn’t recognize the area we had ridden into, nor could I see much around me for landmarks. The cabin we stopped in front of I had never seen before. I could be anywhere, I had no way of knowing how long I had been knocked out or where this man could have taken me.

_“_ Dheth gheibh thu ghalad _,_ ” he said getting off the horse, then reached a hand out for me. I guessed this meant time to get off the horse. I hesitated, debating my chances on getting away if I refused his hand and took his horse, but my likelihood of escape didn’t look promising.

The inside of the cabin was lit by only a single fire, no electric lights in the corners or mounted to the ceiling. This is wrong, a voice inside my head chanted. I was passed from one set of grubby hands to another. This set more forceful than the last, dragged me over to the fire seeming to inspect me from head to toe while conversing with my original captor.

I tried to jerk my arm away. “Would you let go of me and tell me why I was brought here?”

“Och a Sassenach, are ye?”

“I’m not Scottish if that’s what you’re asking, but I do live in Scotland and I’d like to go home if you don’t mind.” I tried to say with as much anger as possible.

“Now why would an English lass be living in Scotland?” The man asked coming into the light. His hair was a dark auburn streaked with gray, and his beard was nearly all gray except for a few lines of red that glinted in the fire.

“Because I love it here,” I growled jerking my arm harder. “Now let me go!”

He released me as I pulled, which sent me stumbling deeper into the cabin. A man sat in a corner on a roughly hewn bench cradling his arm. My original captor stood beside him quickly speaking in Gaelic.

“What happened to your arm?” I whispered. The man’s head whipped around to face me. Eyes the color of the ocean bore into my own and my heartbeat raced. “Please, I can help you. Can you tell me what happened?”

He sat as still as possible, just staring at me.

I reached out to examine his arm when a hand caught mine.

“Ye’ll no be touching him.” The angry man said.

“I’m a nurse, I can help him if I know what is wrong.” Heads swiveled towards me staring down at my breasts. I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Not a wet nurse! Honestly, haven’t you all heard of nurses where you’re from?”

“I fell off my horse, threw out my arm to catch myself and crunch.” The young man’s voice was deep and sent shivers down my spine. I know this story. A memory tickled at the back of my mind. This all sounds familiar, but where from and why?

“I can reset your arm, but it’s going to hurt.”

He nodded and stiffened in preparation.

“Can you hold him steady?” My captor nodded and grabbed the man around the middle.

“One, two,” I didn’t even say three, whipping his arm up and around back into place.

“Thankye, Sassenach.” He said, a look of astonished relief on his face.

“You’re welcome, and it’s Claire.”

“Jamie.”

“Jamie?” I whispered, eyes growing wide. “Is your last name Fraser?” I don’t know why I asked. It couldn’t possibly be him. He lived nearly two-hundred years ago and here I am accusing this poor man of being the legend in the stories I’ve discovered, the one I’ve fallen in love with as I’d learned more of his story. It couldn’t possibly be him. I was grasping at straws and my mind was reaching out desperately to hold on to and discover the man behind the legends.

“Aye,” he said concern laced in his words. My two main captors faces darkened, I didn’t hear the questions they were firing at me. I could only focus on Jamie’s answer.

Yes.

He said yes. His name was Jamie Fraser. Could he be a descendant? No… look at his dress. Think of the story you read in the book called Grandfather Tales. Look around you Beauchamp, it’s really him.

“Oh my God, it’s you! It’s really you and that means…” I trailed off, feeling the color drain from my face. All those stories I had found, researched and desperately clung to since I was a teenager had been about me. The witch from North Carolina, the Dun bonnet’s faerie wife, the healer who wrote the most incredible herbal medical journal was me.

“Lass are ye alright?” Jamie Fraser, the Dunbonnet, the whisky maker, the North Carolinian town founder, asked me concern full in his blue eyes.

“I-I-no-yes-I don’t know.” I stammered out. My mind was couldn’t stop turning over every detail I had ever found of the Scottish legends.

“What do ye mean it’s me? I ken fine who I am and I dinna ken how ye know my name and I’d like to know.”

I shook my head, a smile finally forming. “You’d never believe me if I told you. I can hardly believe it myself, but oh my God you’re real!”

Without thought I threw my arms around him, cautious of his injury and hugged him to me. Tears began to stream down my face.

_**He**_ _was_ James Fraser, the man from the stories, the one with Faerie/Witch for a wife that fell through the stones at Craig na Dun. _**I**_ _was_ his Claire. It was _**me**_. All along the stories I fell in love with were about me.

I found him and I wasn’t about to let go, we were living legends and I was going to make sure it stayed that way.


End file.
